Yes, it's a cover band
by isAsHeavyDoes
Summary: In which Stiles joins a 'cover band', as a drummer in order to vent some of the frustration he finds himself damn-near drowning in. He'd done concerts before. This one, however, was different. He actually recognized some audience members. Also, Stiles and Lydia become bros. Romance and T-rated content are in the works and on the way.
1. The Wombats - Kill the Director

He was driving the rhythm, the heartbeat of the music flowing from the stage. It was all too easy to get lost in it. No sourwolf sneaking into his bedroom at night. No romeo-juliet complex between wolves and hunters. No river of lies eroding away at his already weakened relationship with his father, the sheriff, who just wanted to protect his son but needed to be protected instead. His rambling mind was drowning in sound, and he'd be damned if someone tried to drag him out.

_Carrots help us see much better in the dark_

_Don't talk to girls; they'll break your heart_

_And this is my head and this is my spout_

_They work together; they can't figureanythingout_

'_Yes, it's a cover band_' was the line he heard himself use most often; on the off chance that someone connected the dots between the energetic drummer and the hyperactive lacrosse benchwarmer. It wasn't that he _tried_ to keep his whole in-a-band thing from his friends and maybe-pack-mates. He just never told them, and they never made any effort to find out for themselves. It also has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that, up on stage, in the back of the band and behind the drum set, he could let his shoulders back and his eyebrows down and just _let _everything _go_.


	2. Abandoned Pools - Hunting

_I've been hunting through forests_

_through the fields_

_I've been sailing across the raging seas_

_I've been scaling the mountains_

_and I,_

_have,_

_got!_

_to find a way to bring you home_

* * *

"Holy fu—Stiles!"

His name rang out over the usual shouts and applause. Throwing his head back into an upright position (after leaning into a rather heavy finish to a rather fast song), the badass drummer was gone and the awkward teenager was front and center.

"What the hell, Stilinski!"

He didn't know exactly when his shirt came off, draped over a spare stool somewhere just within arm's reach. Before that moment, he didn't exactly care; it was getting in the way, weighing his arms down with sweat.

"Since when could you do that?!"

The first voice was welcome, and was obviously his best bro, Scott. The second voice was not so welcome, and could only belong to one Jackson Whittemore. The third voice would be that of the girl of his dreams. She was probably in shock, impressed, and a little upset that she didn't know the juicy bit of trivia that _Stiles was in a band that was actually pretty good_. Apparently, Gossip Queen Lydia needed to do some homework.

And, according to the screams, shouts, and pleas from the audience, he needed to get ready for an encore. Deep breaths. In, out. In, out. Just like the pause before jumping into a pool. In, out. The guitar started below the crowd, working its way over the legion of voices. _This starts on the symbols. Simple enough._ One; three; one; _tsssh_; one; three; one; _tsssh_.


	3. Harvey Danger - Wooly Muffler

_All I ever wanted to be was a wooly muffler on your naked neck_

_Double-wrap me when it's cold_

_-but you pulled a little tight, just now_

_and I'm afraid_

_I feel a choke-hold_

_c-c-c-coming on_

* * *

Cold air in his face yanked him back to the present. The encore was over, just one more song that they've been kinda-working on for a while now, but never really felt comfortable playing in public. Apparently, their worries were misplaced.

Stiles found himself outside, behind the Beacon Hills' pathetic excuse for an indie venue, trying to hide from some wolves and friends who were rather skilled at seeking him out. Fleeing the stage like a crime scene was pretty damn easy. Jogging back to grab his shirt was a little more cautious. Once he returned to the brisk outdoors, sliding his now-heavy shirt over his head, he let himself sigh into the night.

A clamor of footsteps, heavy and purposed, let him know he was located.

"Lemme guess. You sniffed me out. You know, maybe I wanted to actually _stay_ _hidden_ for once. Those werewolf noses…that's cheating," Stiles huffed into his hands, visibly regretting leaving his iconic red hoodie in his jeep. His still soaked-through shirt, Captain America shield non-withstanding, did nothing but enhance the evening breeze against his body.

What came next was something Stiles didn't quite expect.

"Man, you were awesome! How did I not know about this?"

"Had I known you could play like that, Jackson here might have had a little competition. Just a little, though. Enough to keep things interesting."

"That…was actually pretty cool, Stilinski."

The chorus of praise continued, each face ranging from jaw-on-ground to slightly bemused.

"Stiles."

_And there he is, gentleman. The sourwolf himself. Derek freaking Hale. _The rasp of Derek's greeting brought Stiles down from the waves of encouragement coming from his newfound fans.

"From bedroom windows to the back alley behind the concert. If I didn't know you any better, Broody McBrooderson, I'd say you were at risk of becoming a groupie."

Sometimes, Stiles wished he had a functioning brain-to-mouth filter. This was one of those times. His fears aside, though, Derek's reaction wasn't as bad as he imagined. That seemed to be the theme for the evening.

"I don't see myself as much of a groupie. A manager, on the other hand…" Derek let his way-too-toothy grin finish the sentence for him.

"We're, uhh. We're good. Without a manager. We're covered." Backpedaling was second nature at this point, when dealing with the alpha in front of him. "We're just, you know. A cover band." _A damn good cover band_, he didn't add.

"To be honest, it's a shame you're _just_ a cover band." Derek's signature snarl returned from hiding, as if he was allergic to giving praise. "Get a song writer and you could be pouring your angst out on stage across the country!"

Stiles blinked. Temporarily dumbfounded. There was a compliment. A thinly veiled complement, wrapped in an insult, dipped in a suggestion, and delivered with a sneer.

Shaking his head, the boy returned to his senses. "Hey. I don't pick the songs, I just beat plastic objects with wooden sticks like a caveman. People love it for some reason. Maybe they're cavemen, too. Well, cavemen and cavewomen."

He bristled as the memory of Lydia's voice, her voice _complementing_ him, replayed in his head. Immediately after that, ringing like a kitchen timer, came the idea oh-so-subtly (if not accidentally) planted by Derek.

"You know, that's not a bad plan. I could bring it up with the guys next practice. Maybe we could get away from this whole 'love-angst-girls-are-confusing' vibe and get some _real_ lyrics. You know, with meaning. Meanings within meanings. _Actual_ songs."

Soft brown eyes lit up as arms flew in an unexpected attack of affection. Before Stiles could catch himself, he found his face pressed into a shocked alpha's chest. Derek utilized an unhealthy amount of restraint in prying Stile's arms from their death grip of his midsection. The younger boy was shuffling back, hands in front of him, like one would retreat from a recently-triggered car alarm.


	4. Two Door Cinema Club - Next Year

_Maybe someday, you'll be somewhere_

_talking to me as if you knew me_

_saying 'I'll be home for next year_

_Darling, I'll be home for next year'_

* * *

Morning came with little to no fanfare, as Stiles opened his eyes approximately 43 seconds before his alarm was going to go off. An arm shot out, brushing the switch on the top of the clock to 'off', before he recognized it as his own.

Breakfast came with little to no anything, as Stiles never really ate breakfast.

School came with…nothing out of the ordinary. Well, there was the minor detail of _Lydia paying attention to him _that may have clued Stiles in to something being amiss, but he wasn't about to look a gift gossip queen in the mouth.

Classes drifted by rather painlessly. Even Mr. Harris couldn't bring Stiles down from whatever cloud he was resting on. Not to say the begrudged excuse of a teacher didn't put in an _effort_, Stiles was just too far gone to be bothered.

That wasn't the first show he'd played. It wasn't even the second. However, it was the first show where someone he knew had been in the audience. The first time Stiles was able to witness the polarity shift of anyone's idea of who or what 'Stiles' was.

And it felt _good_.

The adventures in the sky continued up until lunch. His landing onto the cafeteria bench was rather graceful. The calm before the storm. As the plastic fork approached Stiles' mouth, the entire pack (with other assorted fans and tagalongs) exhaled at once, bombarding him with questions, comments, and even a few concerns about 'his' band.

_We only do covers, right now. Yes, we're going to be looking for a lyricist. No, I don't think our singer is single. Yes, the bassist is totally hot. _Stiles hoped he didn't actually say that last response. Danny, who had squeezed himself between Jackson and Isaac, was giving him a smirk that didn't bode well.

"The next show is Saturday, if anyone wants to come. Just say you're with 'that one drummer on Adderall' and I'm sure they'll give you a discount. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with the bathroom…"

Stiles attempted to bolt through Erica and Boyd, who were the only obstacles between himself and the freedom of the hallway leading out of the cafeteria. _These two weren't at the show last night. Neither was Isaac. What do they want now?_ His mind was plowing forward while his body was caught by an arm, tires spinning on the tiled floor.

"Derek wants to talk." Erica punctuated the statement with a smirk, dropping the look when Boyd's elbow found her ribcage.

"And you were pretty good last night." Stiles could almost hear her eyes rolling upward as she gave the complement, but he knew it wasn't completely insincere. Something in her tone of voice, her posture, gave away a hint of respect.

Their message delivered, the betas allowed Stiles to pass their blockade. The sudden lack of resistance left Stiles on the floor.


	5. Stars - Hold On When You Get Love

_Take the weakest thing in you_

_And then beat the bastards with it._

_You have to hold on when you get love,_

_So you can let go when you give it._

* * *

This was it.

One message. Via SMS, sent through cell towers, potentially bouncing off of a satellite, and through Stiles' phone into the 'fuck-my-life' center of his brain.

_From: She actually gave me her number_

_I'm coming over in two hours. We need to talk._

What did they have to talk about?

Could it be the lifelong crush++ that he harbored for the girl, weathering years of rejection? Maybe the accidental confession of acknowledging the attractiveness of another guy, leading Lydia to investigate further? Maybe someone took Lydia's phone, and is luring him into a false sense of security before appearing on his doorstep armed to the teeth—and what a waste that would be, just to find the silly little human, Stiles Stilinski, staring down the barrel of whatever weapon was brought against him by hunter or common crook.

The doorbell, followed by a rather determined knocking, dropped him out of his reverie into reality: _she's here_.

Down the stairs, ever so gently. He doesn't know why he's trying to be so quiet. He just is. The moment that's about to happen is staring him in the face, and he doesn't want to scare it away, even though he himself would be more terrified of it that it would be of him.

Past the living room. No white noise from the TV; his sheriff-dad is working late, as he's been wont to do ever since he got his job back.

Towards the door. He doesn't know what's taking him so long. It's just Lydia Martin. It's just Lydia Martin, coming to his house.

He catches her on the approach of another knock, fist frozen in the air. Swiftly reconstructing her composure with a toss of her hair, she simply walked into the house and into the kitchen, as if there was nothing strange going on about where she was.

The way she leaned into the kitchen counter would betray a slight weariness, if one paid enough attention. Perhaps a small amount of confusion, drowned out by the natural dominance she did her best to convey.

"This isn't about you being into guys. That's a topic for another time, and I have no problem with being there for you, because I understand how hard that can be to work with when it's new…" Her gaze quickly sized Stiles up, finding no jump or fear. "…or newly spoken of."

He tilted his head, in an attempt to look both dumb and innocent. Two things Stiles wasn't in any way, shape, or form. "Then is this about me being madly in love with you for most of my life? Or could it be that I'm the only other normal, non-hunter human that you can talk to about this werewolf business." His brows began to shade over his eyes, as his head tilted slightly forward. He didn't look down at the floor, though. His stare met hers, and he wasn't going to be easily pitied, or intimidated.

She smirked. Lydia Martin smirks should be considered lethal weapons. Lydia Martin smirks are a threat, a warning, and a promise, all rolled into one pair of distractingly red lips. Lydia Martin smirks are never a good thing for the person on the receiving end.

"You know, with the way you're looking at me right now" Lydia mimicked the head-tilt, a mockery of the very act. "It's almost like you're not afraid of me."

_Huh._ Stiles realized exactly who he was staring down. Funny thing is, he didn't stop staring. Neither did she. Their glares were locked in on each other, in a test of wills neither one plans on losing. Anything caught between them would likely burst into flame. Lydia's face relaxed, showing how comfortable and unaffected she was by this newfound competition. Stiles' expression hardened, finding a new level of glare he never knew he was capable of. Stilinskis were supposed to be huggers, not death-glare-machines.

**One minute.**

_Was that—what did her mouth just do?_ Stiles was in deep, but he was determined not to give in.

**One minute and 23 seconds.**

_Her mouth just twitched. She's going to crack._

**One minute and 41 seconds.**

_She can't hold on much lo—_

The thought process was derailed by something he never thought he'd hear. Lydia Martin was truly, genuinely, laughing. It came from her belly, low near her diaphragm, and carried up through her throat; nothing like the artificial titter that usually followed one of Lydia's forceful famed derogatory remarks.

One thing Stiles immediately learned about Lydia Martin laughing: that shit is _infectious_. T minus 10 seconds and he was clutching his chest, doubled over, laughing with _Lydia freaking Martin_ like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Eventually, they remembered to breathe, crouch-sitting on the tiled kitchen floor. Stiles had stared into the mouth of the beast and escaped, giggling like a madman.

When she looked up, after catching her breath, her gaze was more fond, more knowing, than he'd ever seen before. He returned with the dopey grin he normally saved for Scott, feeling that it was the appropriate thing to do. Stiles and Lydia may have just glared each other into some form of friendship. It was the start of something beautiful.


	6. Menomena - Heavy Is As Heavy Does

_As prideful as a man he was,_

_proud my father never was of me_

_I did it for survival, but I look like the asshole anyway…_

_…and I don't care much for wishful thinking; it's heavy as I breathe._

* * *

Jeb Stilinski wasn't a fool. He knew his son was hopelessly in love with a girl he rarely talked to, he knew his son was in a local band that was gaining popularity, and he knew his son was mixed up in some strange events going around town, involving the former suspect, Derek Hale. Stiles figured what his father didn't know couldn't hurt him. Stiles didn't know how Jeb felt every time Stiles crept through the front door in the wee hours of the morning, likely covered in wounds he would never give a real explanation for. Jeb convinced himself that his son wouldn't keep something big to himself if it wasn't for a good reason. To keep that resolve strong, he worked longer nights at the station, letting him worry about the town in place of the hyperactive boy who he swore was skinning his knees two weeks ago.

Underneath the lies, half-truths, and quick escapes, Jeb noticed something building within Stiles; something that was there before, but only barely. He saw it in the way his son walked, back straight and head held level to the horizon. He heard it in Stiles' voice. There were always tones of concern, but they were usually buried underneath tangents upon tangents. Lately, Stiles sounded more serious. He still rambled, but there was intent behind the wildly-driven thought processes. Jeb always knew his son had a big, strong heart; he was the one who held together when his mother passed, and he was the one last to fall apart, only to build himself back up, learning to rely on Scott when he couldn't handle things himself. As a father, he wanted to be proud of his son, finding something, whatever it was, to feel so strongly about that it began to harden him in other aspects of life. As a sheriff, he feared for his son's safety, as well as the legality of whatever he was finding himself in the middle of.

To find Stiles cooking and joking around in the kitchen with the girl he'd crushed on for so many years, to see his son so relaxed around her, was a bit of a shock. The good kind of shock. Father-mode kicked in rather quickly, though, and demanded to know what Lydia and Stiles were doing, alone, together, in his house. The pair glanced at one another, and immediately collapsed upon themselves, convulsing on the floor in fits of laughter. Jeb was speechless.

Stiles was the first to stand, leaning heavily on the refrigerator. "It's not what it looks like, dad," he gestured between him and the redhead currently grasping the counter for dear life. "We're bros now." Lydia, still fighting to inhale, snorted at the b-word and lost any progress in regaining regular use of her lungs.

Jeb knew that he needed to sit his son down and force the truth out of him, sooner than later, but as usual, there was a moment that he didn't have it in his heart to interrupt.

"You said you'd cook, tonight. She can stay for dinner if she wants." The sheriff allowed himself a grin, small yet warm, before heading up the stairs. Echoes of laughter followed him up and into the hallway.


End file.
